4.28.2010

"Chivvying the Children Across"

A poem about visiting my grandchildren--what I never expected when I was "coming out"as a lesbian mother over thirty years ago! anda poem about holding onto our children's hands(and minds) in the face of "Homeland Security"and the new terrible attacks on immigrant workersin Arizona:

In line for the up-north bus, just left the children,the next little ones, asleep from our gallivantto yesterday’s park, their father running, hands out-stretched over them across four asphalt lanesthe cars in wait, purring. My in-line neighborsvisit in creole French, Arabic, Spanish, the Latinaahead, arms crossed, has knee-high, shoulder-highgirls, and another tall as her, arms-crossed, apart,who comes up silent at the last minute to pullthe heavy luggage as we board. The bus driver asksthem extra questions, the two oldest mouths fencedagainst the wrong answers. I eye-skim the waitingroom, who’s there, corner glimpse, crimp of a woman’shat or hair, top-knotted, nodding, and that or the springrain runs me back to looking across our yard, fugitivebeauty, something more than my life, breaks acrossthe grass, a quail hen chivvying her tiny covey fast,her feathered curl, frail wisp of question on her head.Holding Mae in my arms, her little feet beating to getdown, I can walk! I can carry! What we’re doing is more than silhouettes pasted on a SUV rear window,the fictional normal family tally, more than the state’sdanger road sign, man woman child hand-in-hand,running at the southern border. Holding Alden’s handas he tightropes on the fallen tree limb, him slippingagain, again his fingers almost twisting from my grasp.